Just a door shutting somewhere inside me, quietly, all the way, and not opening again.

People imagine that love ends in a blaze, and sometimes it does.

But sometimes it ends like a ledger being ruled off: a line drawn, a total taken, the book closed and set on the shelf.

I had spent eight months keeping that account open on his behalf, carrying a small ongoing balance of excuses for him — he’s under pressure, he’s not like his parents, he’s kind when it’s just us.

Standing there dripping while he asked me to go below deck so I would stop upsetting the woman who had just tried to drown me, I paid that account off and closed it forever.

And then, because I am who I am, I looked down at my phone.